To Pineapple or Not To Pineapple
by Olivia Beige
Summary: It's all going well in the Northern Neighbourhood Association meeting, when Sansa Stark and Jon Snow started arguing about pineapple on pizza.


The Northern Neighbourhood Association meeting started nicely enough when Sansa announced, "For Sunday's party we'll have pizza. I do hope everyone is amenable to pizza. Is there anyone allergic to cheese?"

Wyman Manderly laughed, patting his rich tweed belly. "Now, that would be alike being allergic to air, wouldn't it."

Laughter rumbled around the rest of the association, as they clutched their beer mugs and balanced biscuits across their tea cups, all of them seated in Winterfell's drawing room. It was the only room with finished repairs at the moment, but it was snug enough against the late autumn chill.

Sansa graciously smiled from the head of the room. She was reaching for the sugar bowl when Jon, sat beside her, nudged half a lemon towards her.

She patted his hand in thanks. Jon's lips quirked up.

The two of them were in matching jumpers, and it was nice, Sansa had to admit, that Jon started sharing her lemons too. They had never been close as kids although Father had practically raised Jon.

Both of them squeezed their lemon halves on their tea. Jon was more prudent. Sansa could see no point in restraint when it came to lemons, so she relished in the squeezing. Hard, hard squeezing.

She was still squeezing when Jon raised his cup to his lips, drew a long sip.

And shuddered.

From Jon's other side, Davos added, "Of course, aside from the pizza, cocktail sticks will be served. Beet cubes, olives, fried onions, cheese. Hope you'll be patient with us, the kitchen is still under repairs."

Understanding murmurs swept through their neighbours. Nobody liked wrestling with the real estate troubles of the past. Nobody especially liked the change of decor. All were relieved when Catelyn Tully's fish-inspired vases were reinstated in their proper places in the drawing room.

Lyanna Mormont bit down on her chocolate digestive. "What kind of pizza are we having?" She marked her place in her A- Levels Westerosi Diplomatic History textbook, adding, "We have to remember, though, that Hot Pie Pizza only delivers one kind in bulk."

"With pineapple," Sansa promptly said, at the same time that Jon said, "No pineapple."

They stared at each other.

Jon looked as if he could barely believe what had just come out of Sansa's mouth.

Sansa could feel her eyebrows ascend ever closer to judgmental heights.

Davos cleared his throat.

Somewhere in the drawing room, Alys Karstark denounced pizza for pie.

At last Jon said, "Pineapple on pizza just feels wrong."

"Have you ever had pineapple?" Sansa challenged.

"I had! We had those in from cans in the Wall. They were so itchy on the tongue, Sansa."

Jon abruptly pushed back his chair, and he was on his feet now, still staring at her, speechless for three heartbeats. "Itchy on the tongue," he emphasised. "We will not subject our neighbours to that torture. Pizza should only be a good memory."

Sansa did not miss a beat. "What you had were infinitely inferior pineapples." She looked away from him and sipped her lemony tea. She didn't know why he looked so betrayed.

"Maybe they were expired," Sansa said, generously. "Did you look at the tag to see if they were expired?"

"The Wall had cooks. We didn't question what was served."

"Well," Sansa said, "perhaps this will be a treat for all of us. We so rarely have pineapple on anything here in the North. I'm sure -" she sent a smile at their neighbours, most of whom were pointedly studying their own toes - "we Northerners will appreciate a fresh flavour before winter."

Jon remained resolute, for once not poking with quiet contentment on the grey and white jumper Sansa had knitted for him. "For years, we Northerners have patronised Ros' Pizza Palace. We should order there. Ros gives good discounts and is generous with her toppings."

Davos slid in with, "Perhaps we should have a vote."

"I think," Lyanna Mormont piped up, "that we should bring our own pineapple tidbits. For those who fancy such topping. I know I will."

"It won't be the same," came Ned Umber's reedy voice, "they need to be cooked with the pizza -" He stopped, edging away from Lyanna Mormont's sharp, narrowed eyes.

Sansa took a deep breathe. She could do this. She grew up watching her mother and father run the association. She also learned how not to mess up things, when she had spent some time in King's Landing and Cersei Lannister had hosted a spectacular food poison-inducing lecture party.

"Yes," Sansa said. "I think we should have a vote. Jon?"

Jon picked up his cup, shuddered as he drank, and said, "I agree. We vote."

The vote was fifty-fifty.

"Pineapple's exotic, yeah?" Tormund put in, waving his beer mug and sloshing a bit. "I'm for pineapple. Haven't got the foggiest on what it's like. But I'm for it."

Sansa and Jon peered testily at each other.

Jon said, "We should order from Ros."

Sansa said, "We should order a small bulk from Hot Pie. Package B. It'd be less expensive then, and he told me he's Arya's friend."

"And the half, no pineapples from Ros," Jon finished. "You know, that's actually a good idea."

Sansa smiled at him. Jon glanced away with a little smile of his own, and started fiddling with the direwolf on his jumper.

Lyanna Mormont was licking her fingers and reaching into a packet for another shortbread. "I hope we get thin crusts."

Mr. Glover glowered at her. "Are you telling me, young lady, that we should eat ithat/i - that - New Age nonsense instead of sane, regular crust?"

Lyanna Mormont held his glare as her large front teeth chomped down on the shortbread. "Regular crusts, as we all know, are for cowards."

"I can't believe you said that," Jon grumbled when they were alone.

They were strolling in the godswood. Paper lanterns swung from the oak branches, their yellow light bulbs cupped by the richest red or ivory of Myrish crepe paper.

"I know you spent time in the south," Jon was going on, "and you had these - these pineapples, and lemons, and mangoes. But you needn't have rubbed it in my face. In front of everyone."

"I didn't rub it in your face," Sansa exclaimed.

They paused under a swinging ivory lantern. Under the weirwood, in fact. Sansa glimpsed at the indigo of the night pooling between the weirwood's finger-like red leaves.

Jon stared at her with the haunted eyes of one who hadn't been to warm places.

"I didn't," Sansa said. "I thought it'd be nice for you. And it'd be nice for our neighbours since we don't have a kitchen yet. I thought - no proper food from us, but it'll be fine because it's an uncommon fruit."

"Yeah," Jon sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, "I get what you mean."

He sat down at the base of the weirdwood, but not without brushing at imaginary dirt from his jumper. He smiled up at her then, soft and unguarded under the lantern light, and patted the thick mossy earth beside him.

Sansa couldn't help a quiet surging in her chest then.

It hadn't been easy, immediately taking charge of the repairs and the association straight after winning the court battle. But though Arya and Bran and Rickon were still in school, and Sansa didn't attend uni for two terms, Jon had been there with her.

He was dependable and fair, and Sansa couldn't deny that he was good with planning the steps to take.

But where Jon could assemble an association meeting, it was Sansa who knew of the names and the news of what was going on with each family. She had mermaid-themed cupcakes served on the meeting which coincided with Wylla Manderly's name day. When Jon had finalised the neighbourhood watch shifts and procedures, it had been Sansa who distributed knitted gloves for each watchman, complete with a card holder with emergency numbers.

It had not been easy to get to know Jon again. A day was not complete unless they disagreed on something, and agreed on another thing.

"You do love that jumper, don't you." Sansa gleamed at him, tucking her matching jumper-clad shoulder against his. The weirwood was sturdy against her back.

"Adore is the word," Jon said, putting his arm around her.

"Is that right."

"Yeah." Jon nosed at her temple. "I saw you knitting it."

Sansa turned her head so that she could press a quick kiss on his lips. "I didn't see you trim your beard this morning. Still love it."

"I meant, the jumper was in your hands. So when I wear it. I think I can feel your hands."

Sansa drew back a bit. She gazed at him, at Jon's scarred face, his grey eyes looking at her, seeing her.

There were still nice and pretty things in this world, Sansa thought.

In his most casual voice, Jon said, "You think we should still serve cocktail sticks?"

A laugh startled out of Sansa. "Of course. Joffrey never served cocktail sticks." Sansa snuggled closer to Jon, whose thumb had started caressing a spot on her shoulder. "He had his mother's guests eating peanuts with bits of black bacon."

Jon made a face. "Weird southron palates. Reminds me not to have lemon in my tea."

"Well why did you keep drinking it?" Sansa laughed. The air was brisk and colder, now that night had fallen, but Sansa thought she was warm enough. "What? Is there something on my face?"

Jon's smile was gentle. "I just like hearing you laugh."

What could she say to that? Sansa could only reach for his other hand and give it an equally gentle squeeze.

"So," Sansa said, in her most casual voice, "so why did you keep drinking it?"

"The what?"

"The tea. With lemon, you were just telling me."

"Ah." Jon surveyed their matching jumpers with a quiet pleasure, dangerously close to smugness. "You knitted this for me. Thought I might try your lemons."

Sansa bit on her lip to keep from splitting her face in an ecstatic grin. "Why do say my lemons like that?"

"Like what?"

"My lemons. Does that sound an innuendo? Lemons are romantic. Are innuendos?"

"Gods."

"I know. I missed you this morning."

Now it was Jon who drew back a bit from Sansa, a grin climbing up his cheeks. "I tried to wake you."

"I missed it. I was tired from emailing Hot Pie's about the -"

"Can we please stop talking about the pizza for now?"

Sansa kissed his cheek. "All right. You poor darling. Traumatised from tinned pineapples."

"I thought my tongue would fall off. And by fruit, not the frost."

"Well," Sansa murmured, letting the word hang and swell. She could feel the warmth of their mingled breaths on her cheek. "Let me give you something more pleasant? For your tongue?"

Jon's voice was a rasp. "Since I missed you this morning. Yeah."

"Yes." Sansa licked her lips.

They spent the next hour or so not arguing about pineapple on pizza and, blessedly, blissfully, in full accord.

fin


End file.
